


somehow you kicked all my walls in

by livinginaworldofnoise



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: M/M, canon through 1x07 i guess??, coliver in a bar, hopefully it's somewhat cute, not including winter finale stuff, so htgawm sans murder basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livinginaworldofnoise/pseuds/livinginaworldofnoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is empty, and the one devil you don't want to see because he broke your heart is here in your bar.</p><p>(Coliver reunion fic, in which Oliver is just trying his best to forget about Connor, to no avail)</p>
            </blockquote>





	somehow you kicked all my walls in

**Author's Note:**

> hi love, thanks for reading! not edited so hopefully there's no mistakes buuuuuut hopefully you enjoy!  
> disclaimer: i know literally nothing about bars  
> this scene is kind of a happier way of coliver getting back together than the actual events that transpired

The devil has a wayward smirk and perfect hair, Oliver thinks. He never used to subscribe to the idea of a personal Lucifer, but then he met Connor.

Hell ensued. Also sex, but it was the hell Oliver has to focus on to keep him from answering his phone when Connor calls now. And he does call, a plethora of times a week, almost enough to break Oliver's resolve.

Almost.

It _was_ hell, he had decided, the uncertainty and the "I don't do boyfriends" and the crippling self-doubt that had him constantly convinced that Connor had probably already found someone better. Someone he would do boyfriends for. The latter still bothers Oliver, weeks after he kicked Connor out of his apartment. Goddamn.

"This is nothing but a low point," Oliver assures himself one night in a bar, already under the influence of enough alcohol that talking to himself out loud didn't seem terribly weird.

"That's the spirit," the bartender says heartily, and Oliver starts, nearly slopping his drink on himself. He should really have gone home when the rest of his colleagues did.

He should have, because who is to walk in next but the devil himself.

Oliver is not sure, exactly, what he has been expecting from Connor's appearance, but he finds himself slightly concerned by the bags under his ex's eyes. He wonders if it was because of a case, and then hates himself for caring.

He realizes, belatedly, his mind slightly more clouded than he'd like given the circumstances, that he should make an effort to be inconspicuous. It's one thing to stare at Connor's contact picture and wish desperately that things weren't the way they were. It's entirely another to have to see him and talk to him and prevail in the face of charm.

God, he's charming. And incredibly attractive. And—and coming over here.

Dammit.

Connor sits a few seats down, though, and doesn't even seem to see him.

Okay, it definitely isn't disappointment that Oliver is feeling right now. Obviously, that would be stupid.

Connor orders bourbon, and Oliver blinks a little in surprise. He must have had a pretty bad day. 

The bartender is clearly following the same line of thinking. "Rough day?"

Connor laughs and the sound cuts through the air like a whip. There's nothing warm about that laugh. "Rough life."

The man raises an eyebrow as he takes in the suit and the gorgeous. "Pretty boy rich kid like you? Really."

"That's a recipe for daddy issues, didn't you know?" Connor's smirk is widening and his mood is blackening. Before the conversation can continue and Connor can devise a way to verbally crucify a person, he turns his head slightly and sees Oliver. The brittle smile is eviscerated and if Oliver didn't know any better he'd christen the new look 'vulnerability.' "Oliver," he breathes, and it leaves his mouth as an inadvertent plea.

Oliver is frozen, now, completely unable to move or think. If incoherency is measured in cold, his mind right now is an eternal winter. "I—um, yes. Hi," he manages.

Connor's face splits into a smile, a genuine one that so rarely breaks free from his trademark smirk. "Hi. I didn't think I'd see you again."

Oliver can't meet his gaze after that because it _hurts_. "Me neither."

"I came by, you know." He looks up this time, startled, waiting for Connor to offer an explanation. "With...with flowers," he adds ruefully.

If Oliver's heart was attached to one of those heart-rate-machine-thingies, it would show a straight horizontal line. _What?_

"Your boyfriend was there, though."

"My—my what?"

"That guy. He answered the door. Tall, dark, handsome?" The last part is not said in a particularly nice voice.

Something clicks in Oliver's mind. "Cole," he says. "He's one of my friends from college. Not my boyfriend. What did he say to you?"

"Nothing really," Connor says vaguely, running a finger along the rim of his glass, though he has brightened considerably at the delivery of that piece of news. "Just gave me some stuff to think about."

"And did you?" The question leaves Oliver's mouth without permission, and he can't decide if he wants to take it back.

"I didn't even need to, not really." It's said softly, almost an exhalation, but Oliver hears every word like it's through a megaphone. "I already had my answer."

Why isn't there enough air to breathe in this bar? Oliver thinks maybe he should answer, but he can't say a word, so instead he just waits. Waits for Connor to elaborate, waits for him to say something Oliver has been waiting weeks to hear, waits for what would, essentially, be a miracle.

"I'm so sorry."

"For—for what?" Oliver asks, because how on earth can he have this conversation without clarity.

"For cheating on you. For—I don't know, for being a moron about this whole thing. I need you." Connor was looking at him, so earnestly it hurt, and Oliver felt himself, inexplicably, starting to believe him.

But he had to say something first, had to make something clear before he could even think of moving forward. When he speaks, his voice isn't angry, but firm (or, as firm as he can possibly make it given his current situation). "But have you—like, have you ever considered that maybe it isn't enough just to need me? That maybe some part of you should want me, as well? I mean I get it. I do. You need tech help, you need to solve your cases, you need to fill your sex quota for the month. But you can't just—just keep taking. From me. Um. Yeah."

Connor grabs his hand, almost unbidden, it seemed, his gaze imploring. Oliver lets him. "I know. You're right. I know. I just—I don't like you _actually_ , I just like you, and I don't _know_ why it was so hard to say that." He takes a breath, and his eyes drop to stare at their hands. "I'm screwed up, I know. I've done a lot of stupid things and I've been screwed over a lot and I'll just—just, like, tell you all of it. If you want to listen."

Oliver wonders if the whole world can hear his heartbeat right now, if it is shattering windows and cracking the roads with its force. "Of course I do."

Connor relaxes, visibly, collapsing into himself like he was no longer cursed to hold up the world. "I don't—I'm not sure where to start," he says earnestly, but his eyes are brighter now and his expression without its usual edge.

Oliver can't help but smile, just a little. "Anywhere at all. I want to hear it all."


End file.
